Chapter Text
With the windows rolled down, wind whipping his hair into his face, music blasting from the speakers of his car and the sun illuminating the earth in an image of pure beauty, Richie feels free. He makes his way down the streets of Derry, duffel bags piled in the backseat, and for a moment he thinks he’s going to miss it – not the town, this place can go fuck itself for all he cares, but the feeling. The memories he’s made with the losers, the trouble they’ve gotten themselves into, the days and the nights spent together. They’re the only family he has, really, and he knows that his life will feel empty without them. He knows that doing this will inevitably tear him apart, piece by piece, but it’s better than the alternative, isn’t it? If he leaves, he knows it was his own doing. He can only blame himself for being alone, because he made the choice to go. And yeah, it’s going to suck, it’s going to wear him down until he’s a shell of his former self and all he feels is pain, but if he stays, then he’s stuck watching everyone else go, watching everyone else fly off to different parts of the country, perhaps even different parts of the world, while he has nowhere to run to. And that fact remains true no matter what, for he still has nowhere to run to, has nothing waiting out there for him, but he has something to run away from.
There are tears burning in the corners of his eyes that he refuses to acknowledge, instead just pushing his sunglasses farther up his nose and smiling at the group of kids he drives past. He wonders if it’s obvious, if anyone who sees him go by can tell what he’s about to do, but the thought is quickly dismissed. The only people who could possibly figure it out are the loser’s, and that’s exactly why he told them he couldn’t join them to go see the scary movie marathon at the Aladdin. They’ll be there until night fall, and then they’ll go to the Quarry for a late-night swim, where instead of meeting up with Richie, as he’d promised, they’ll find a simple letter awaiting their arrival.
Oh, god, the letter. Writing that damn thing is undoubtedly the hardest thing he’s ever done, and he didn’t even say everything he wanted to. He couldn’t figure out the proper words, the right way to say goodbye, because how could he? How could he string together a farewell when the seven of them are connected in a way deeper than any normal friendship, when the rest of the losers are a part of him in a way that he can’t describe? The only way to even begin to explain how much he loves them, how much he's going to miss them, would be to tell the truth, and that’s something he can’t do. Knowing himself, he’d word it wrong and make it sound like he was blaming the losers, which is the last thing he wants to do.
Well, no, the last thing he wants to do is be apart from them at all, but…
He reaches forward to turn the music up, trying to silence his thoughts with The Cure, despite knowing that it won’t actually help. This isn’t supposed to be a sad day – difficult, yes, but not sad. This is a new beginning for all of them. With him being the first to leave, he’ll set off a ripple effect, and eventually the rest of them will go off to find their potential and do amazing things, and he’ll… he’ll live, he supposes. Get a minimum wage job and some crappy apartment at the outskirts of a city far away from here, where no one will think to look for him. Not ideal, but it’s better than wasting away in this town, missing the people he loves the most. It’s not like he has much to offer the world, anyway.
He’s going to leave. He has to and he knows it, yet here he is, driving past the Aladdin as slow as he can manage, gazing at the doors with a heavy feeling coiling in the pit of his stomach. It’d be so easy to give in, to park his car and go inside, to say his plans were cancelled and spend the day with his friends, but he can’t. He can’t do that, not to them and not to himself.
With a heavy sigh, a pained smile carved into his features, he presses on the gas and drives away.
The stars are bright, the night air is warm against their skin, and despite the amazing day they’ve had, there’s still something missing. Or rather, someone.
It had been a bit suspicious when Richie declined going to see the horror movie marathon, feeding them some excuse about having to help his mom with something. Though clearly a lie, none of them pressed into the matter, knowing that he’d fess up to whatever it is once he’s ready. After all, he’s Richie, and they know him just as well as they know themselves. He had promised to meet them at the Quarry afterwards for some midnight swimming to celebrate graduating – a final hurrah, some would say, except this is far from final; the losers may be eighteen and preparing to ditch Derry with their middle fingers high in the sky, but they have no plans on leaving each other. They would never do such a thing.
Tonight, they’re planning on asking Richie about ideas for the future, about where they should all go and what they should do. Bill wants to attend college to pursue a career in writing, but he’s not picky as to where, so long as everyone else is with him. Eddie isn’t sure what he wants to major in, but he does want to at least get an associates degree to help him find higher paying jobs. Beverly doesn’t want to go to college, and is planning on saving up money and buying a place to start a shop where she’ll sell the clothes she makes – a rough plan, one that needs to be ironed out, but she’s not in a rush. Mike isn’t sure what he wants to do yet, but he’s decided to at least take a few classes at the closest community college they end up by. Ben’s dead set on architecture, but much like Bill, he has no preference as to where he goes as long as he’s with his friends. Richie had never offered an opinion on the matter, only ever distancing himself whenever someone tried to talk about it, even going as far as to dismiss himself from the conversation and walk away if they wouldn’t change the subject. The others just assumed he was stressed, trying to figure out what he wanted to do, unsure about what career path to go in or if he should try going to college or not. Up until now they’d respected his space, not bringing it up around him in fear of making him upset, but now that it’s almost July and they’re able to leave, they need to confront the topic and start preparing.
Their plan kind of falls apart, though, when they get to the Quarry and Richie is nowhere to be seen. “He’s probably just running late,” Bill assures as they make their way down the path, pushing aside low hanging branches and basking in the calm feeling of the summer’s night. “We should wait until he gets here before swimming, though.”
Nodding in agreement, the six of them make their way to the cliff overlooking the water, grinning from ear to ear. Beverly runs a hand through her hair, curling just below her ears and tickling the back of her neck in the breeze as she scans the area around her, feeling content but unable to shake off the twinge of tension in her muscles that always lingers when all seven of them aren’t together. It won’t go away until Richie gets here so she isn’t too worried, but then a shiver runs down her spine and a bitter taste rises in the back of her throat and she knows, somehow, that something is wrong.
“I think he was already here,” Ben speaks up, lifting a hand to point down below. “Look, there’s tire tracks.” As everyone follows his gaze, they discover that he’s right – in the damp, muddy shore by the water, there’s clear evidence of a car having been there recently. Beverly shifts uncomfortably, the bitterness on her tongue growing stronger as she eyes the tracks. A heavy silence falls over them, weighing down their shoulders as a feeling of uneasiness curls around them, suffocating.
Eddie’s the one who breaks the silence, his voice shaky as he says, “I think there’s something down there, on the rock. Do you guys see that?”
A rectangle of white glints in the moonlight. Wordlessly, Stan steps onto the path leading down to the shore of the Quarry and starts walking, his head held high despite the way his heart pounds in his throat. He doesn’t know what to expect out of this, doesn’t know what he’ll find, but he knows it isn’t good. Behind him he hears the footsteps of the other losers following after him, all of them on the brisk of sprinting as they try to act like they're not as on edge as they really are. It's as if giving off a barely contained sense of faux calm might prevent whatever's about to happen from happening, but they all know the truth as they reach the bottom of the trail and edge closer to the rock. They know this isn't something they can try to play off – there's no point in trying, anyway. They can't play anything off without Richie there, and they all have the sense that Richie's far away from here.
When they reach the mystery object, everyone freezes to gaze down at it in uncertainty, scanning over the folded over paper weighed down by a small rock placed in the center. On the front, barely visible in the moonlight, in the familiar scrawl of their one and only Richie Tozier, is the word Losers with a small heart by the second s. Swallowing thickly, Mike is the first to reach down and grab it, slowly turning to sit on the rock once the paper is in his hands. Hoarsely, he asks, "Hey, Stan? Do you have a flashlight? It's too dark, I can barely see it."
Silently, Stan reaches behind him to pull his backpack off his shoulders. He has to stifle a sharp, anxious breath as he remembers Richie teasing him for still carrying around a backpack earlier this week - "We're graduates now, Stanny," he had said, playfully poking and prodding at Stan's shoulders, waist, hips, whatever he could reach. "We carry our shit in our pockets like real adults." At the time, Stan rolled his eyes and shoved him away, murmuring something along the lines of how annoying and aggravating Richie was, to which the boy merely grinned and cooed, "You love and you know it!" Now, though, Stan's hands shake as he tries to open the bag, fingers fumbling with the zipper whenever he attempts to get a grip on it. He's cursing under his breath, angry at himself for being so overwhelmed when nothing has even happened yet, but no matter how hard he tries to focus on the task at hand, he can't. Eventually, after what may have been seconds or minutes, but feels like hours, Ben reaches over and places his hands on top of Stan's, whispering, "Hey, I got it. It's okay." Silently, Stan releases the bag, letting Ben take it and open it up, digging around for only a moment before pulling out the small flashlight inside.
"Thanks," Mike murmurs, accepting the item when Ben extends it towards him. He flicks it on and angles it towards the page, taking a deep breath before unfolding it. The rest of the losers step away, trying to gouge out Mike's reaction in fear of what the paper contains, every moment passing by making them more and more antsy as Mike's eyes flicker back and forth, reading it slowly and thoroughly. He shows no outer reaction for a long time other than his jaw clenching tighter and tighter, until eventually he looks up and meets Eddie's worried gaze. "Everyone needs to read this," he says roughly, voice steady yet somehow wobbly at the same time. "But you need to read it first."
Stunned, Eddie takes a shaky step forward and questions, "Why me?"
"Because you know him more than we do," Mike answers simply, pushing himself to his feet so that Eddie can sit on the rock. For a moment, Eddie wants to protest, but he finds himself aching to rest his legs as his knees tremble, so he gratefully accepts. Hastily, Mike adds, "I mean, we all know him, but..."
With a glint in her eyes, Beverly says, "You guys have your own connection, like how all of us have our own connections. You just... you understand the way he thinks, Eddie. In a way that none of us can figure out."
Nodding, Mike agrees, "Exactly. And we need to understand what he's thinking now more than ever." Holding the paper out to Eddie in one hand, the flashlight extended in the other, he instructs, "Read it."
Hey, losers.
So, this is really weird and sappy and totally different than what I normally do, but it's necessary, I think. You see, I have something really important that I need to tell you guys, but I don't know how to say it. Like, at all. I'm sorry if this makes no sense.
I don't know how to word this, so I guess I'll just spit it out. Basically, I'm leaving. By the time you read this, I'll already be gone. I'm not telling you where I'm going, and I'm not telling you why, but just know it's not because of you guys, okay? If I had it my way, I'd never leave the six of you, but it's not up to me. We're growing up and I know there's no way we'll ever be able to be together the way we have been up until now, and I just want to rip the band-aid off.
So, I'm going, and I'm not coming back. Take care of yourselves, okay? I know you're all going to be incredibly successful at whatever you choose to do, and I hope life treats you all well. I love you guys so fucking much.
Love, Richie
P.S. Don't come find me. It's not worth it, honestly.
By the time Eddie's done reading the letter, his stomach is churning uncomfortably and he has to shove the paper and the flashlight into Bill's hands before hunching over the empty the contents of his stomach into the grassy shore beside him. His throat burns and his eyes water and he feels miserably, miserably sick, fingers trembling and heart aching in his chest. Vaguely, he registers that someone's hand is on his shoulder and rubbing his back, but he can't focus on it, can't focus on anything through the ringing in his ears, the constant buzzing in his head. He can't shake this dizzy feeling consuming him, making everything blurry and far away.
"I got him," he hears Mike say somewhere behind him, his voice echoing around Eddie's brain like he's a million miles from here. "You guys read the letter. I'll make sure he's okay." Shortly after, Eddie's feels the hands on him tighten their hold just enough to guide him into a proper sitting position, tilting his head up until he blinks his vision clear and looks up at Mike, who's watching him with eyes reflecting both understanding and concern. Gently, he coaxes Eddie's hand up until his fingers are clasped around a water bottle – another item from Stan's backpack, Eddie assumes. Gratefully, Eddie accepts the offer and takes a long drink, rinsing out the vile taste out of his mouth, a mixture of vomit and a salty aftertaste from the tears tracking down his cheeks. He didn't even realize he was crying, but now he's painfully aware of the stickiness coating his skin, and it's in this same moment that he notices the painful hiccups rumbling somewhere from within his chest. "Slow down," Mike tells him, taking the bottle back and rubbing a hand over Eddie's spine in soothing circles. "Breathe. It's alright."
Those words set Eddie off again, fresh tears welling in his eyes as he abruptly pushes himself to his feet, shoving Mike away from him with whatever force he can summon. "How can you say that?!" He angrily hisses, wiping at his cheeks aggressively, sniffling and shaking his head. "He's- he's fucking gone, Mike! He left! How can you look me in the fucking eye and tell me- tell me it's alright? It's not fucking alright!"
"Eddie," Ben whispers, his tone thick. Eddie parts his lips to say more but comes to an abrupt halt as he looks at his friends, all of them looking just as broken as he feels, and his anger quickly subsides.
"I'm sorry," he breathes, lower lip wobbling. He looks at Mike, eyes apologetic. "I'm sorry, I didn't- I shouldn’t have—"
Mike shakes his head, stepping forward to envelope Eddie in a tight hug, one that he instantly melts into, shoulders wracking with heavy sobs. "I'm sorry," Mike says softly, rocking Eddie back and forth slowly, feeling more than seeing as the other losers gather around them to join the embrace. "It's not alright, but it will be," he promises, voice certain even as his eyes glimmer with his own tears. "We'll find him, okay? We'll find him, Eddie."
Eddie nods into Mike's chest, repeating, "We'll find him," to himself until it's a mantra in his head, something to fight for, to never give up on. I won't rest, he thinks in the back of his foggy mind. I won't rest until we figure out where you are.
Life without the losers is, as expected, considerably less enjoyable, Richie discovers. A week into this new life, a week consisting of him driving until he can't stay awake anymore, pulling over into abandoned parking lots and the sides of empty streets to sleep, and only stopping once a day for a few snacks to eat on the road, and he's already feeling it. Not a heaviness like he assumes, but rather something empty, like a hole has been punched through the center of his chest, splintering his ribs and slicing up his insides. It feels like a physical wound that he can't tend to, can't patch up or fix because it's somewhere within him where he can't reach.
So, he lives with it, and he drives, and he watches scenery change as he goes south, then west, then north, then west again, until he knows he's far from Maine but feels like he isn't far enough. He needs to go somewhere the losers would never expect him to be – LA is out of the question, because that's just obvious. New York is too close to Derry for his comfort, as is Boston. Seattle, like LA, is just too predictable of him, a place where he's certain he'd be found. Perhaps he should just avoid cities altogether and disappear in some small town that the others have never even heard of, somewhere by the water; west coast is his preference, because it's completely across the country, but he's not sure if the money he has saved up from summer jobs over the years will be enough to get him there. He supposes it's worth a shot, though, and if he doesn't make it all the way then he'll just stay wherever he ends up until he finds a way to get more cash so he can finish the journey.
To be fair, it's not all bad. Sure, he spends most of the time in his car with his radio as loud as it can go, trying to drown out the silence that accompanies him when his friends aren't around, and sure, when he offers kind smiles to strangers he passes it's just a rouse to cover up his unrelenting urge to cry, cry, and keep crying, but it's still...
Well. It's not good. He can't lie to himself about that, but he's okay. He misses the hell out of his friends, but he's okay. Actually, he's better than okay! He's... well, he's.... driving until further notice, and that's what he really needs to be thinking about, isn't it? Not about the life he left behind, and especially not the people he left behind. From this point on, he needs to think forward, not backward. If he doesn't, he fears he might fall apart much sooner than he anticipated.
Two weeks into the disappearance of Richie Tozier and the losers are feeding themselves with faux hope to try and avoid confronting the fear burning inside them. Despite the promise they made upon discovering Richie was gone, they've had to set aside time to figure out how the fuck they're supposed to find him. It makes no sense to leave before they have the slightest clue of where they're going, but with every hour that goes by where they're not actively searching for their friend, they feel themselves getting more and more anxious.
Mike, Eddie and Stan are the three who have been trying to narrow down where Richie may have gone – Mike, because he's able to look at the situation from an unbiased point of view; Stan, because he's known Richie the longest and has heard every dream about every city; Eddie, because, as Beverly had said, he understands how Richie thinks and will be able to confirm or deny the ideas that the others throw out there. If he wasn't consumed by worry, he'd almost find the whole situation entertaining, the three of them huddled around a map laid out on Mike's kitchen table, pens in hand, scribbling down whatever they can think of that may help, but he is consumed by worry and can’t find it in himself to notice the entertainment value of this situation.
"He doesn't want us to find him," Eddie says, voice strong and certain – this, he can do. Being productive, he can do. But thinking about the fact that Richie's been driving God-knows-where for two weeks and is already far away from here? Well, he can do that, too, but it'll lead to a fucking breakdown. So, he'll keep doing this, instead. "He wouldn't go somewhere we'd expect him to. That means LA is out of the question. He's a city soul through and through, so he won't be in any city at all."
Stan gnaws on his lower lip, crossing out LA, New York, Chicago, Seattle, and Boston. "What if he leaves the country?"
Instantly, Eddie shakes his head. "He has money saved up, but not enough for a passport and a plane ticket. Plus, he took his car. He may be running away, but he's still sentimental. He wouldn't just leave it behind, there's too many memories in that thing." Tapping the end of the pen against his lower lip, Eddie scans over the map, gaze sweeping past all the markings they've left behind on it. With a low hum, Eddie points to the east coast and states, "He'll want to be as far away from here as possible. He's either heading west, or south."
"My money's on west," Mike muses, dragging his pen across the east coast to cross it out. "He hates when it gets too hot, and the southern sun is fucking brutal. Besides, like you said, he's a city boy. He won't go to a city, but I think he'll be close. Just a few hours away, so he can spend a day there when he wants to."
Nodding, Eddie murmurs, "You're right, he'll definitely place himself by a city somewhere. But which one?" He leans closer, his fingertip dragging over the paper in the featherlight touch, weighing the options in his head. Richie is predictable to a certain level, but he's still spontaneous and surprising. They can limit the area they'll be looking, but they can't pinpoint his exact location. Sighing, Eddie stands up straight, hands falling limply to his sides, and says, "It could be any of the cities on the west coast. California, Oregon, and Washington. That's where we have to go."
"Three whole states," Stan mutters, shaking his head, features crestfallen. "That's so much. How are we going to find him in all of that?" He points to the states and circles them with his finger, sucking in a harsh breath. "There's millions and millions of people here. How do we find Richie out of all of them?"
"We find a way," Mike says firmly, voice leaving no room for negotiation. Glancing between Eddie and Stan, he adds, "We know where to look, and between the six of us, we have plenty of money saved up to get there. So, the question is... when do we leave?"
It's day twenty when Richie succumbs to the fact that he has to stop driving for a little while. At first, being behind the wheel was a great distraction from what he was doing – he kept all his focus on the road, drowning out intrusive thoughts with music, music, and more music. If he tried hard enough, he could almost pretend that nothing was wrong. He drives for two weeks just fine, taking his sweet time going down back roads and through towns of people who don't seem to care one way or another about if he stays or leaves. He lounged in his car for a few days somewhere between the first and second week, not wanting to get anywhere too fast, longing to make the road trip last because he knows it'll only hurt when he reaches his destination, before he kept going.
But then the third week comes around, and Richie can't drive anymore, can't sit in this stuffy vehicle for hours upon hours just to choke on the feeling of being alone, so fucking alone. There's a moment where he thinks he hears Beverly's voice in the back seat, and then he's crying, unable to contain the snotty tears as they roll messily down his cheeks as memory after memory plays in his mind. All the things that they've done in this car, the small adventures they got up to back in Derry, the nights that him and Eddie slept in here because neither of them wanted to go home and deal with their parents.
He can't be in this fucking thing for another second. He's suffocating in here.
Yanking on the steering wheel, he pulls over to the side of the road, ignoring the angry honking of cars behind him as he does so, and stumbles out of the vehicle, taking in deep, greedy breaths. The world around him feels like it's spinning as he leans against the hood of his car, legs threatening to give out underneath him as he dry heaves, roughly swallowing the bile in his throat. He refuses to be like this so soon – refuses to be such a mess when there's a whole lifetime ahead of him that he has to get through without the losers, how the hell is he supposed to handle it when he can't even make it this far without breaking down? God, what was he thinking, running off like this? He can't do it, he has to go back—
No, no, that's not right. He can't go back. He did this for them, so that they didn't have to worry about leaving him behind when they flew off to be successful. Going back will just ruin that. This is what he has to do.
"I'm making the right choice," he whispers to himself, heaving in a painfully slow breath, trying to bring a halt to his thoughts as they attempt to spin out of control. There's an ache in the center of his chest, and he can't tell if it's from the lack of oxygen or if it's an empty space that can only be filled by the people he left behind. "I'm doing the right thing." He repeats this under his breath, feeling his lungs expand as his eyes begin to dry, and eventually he stands up straight. It feels like hours have gone by, but when he climbs back into the driver's seat the clock shows that it's only been fifteen minutes. Wordlessly, he pulls back onto the road and heads towards the nearest town, keeping his eyes out for signs pointing to a motel. As he drives, he keeps the mantra going in his mind. I'm making the right choice. I'm doing the right thing.
I can't go back.
Leaving Derry is both invigorating and absolutely terrifying.
On one hand, they're finally ridding themselves of a town that's done nothing but hurt and traumatize them. They're leaving behind parents that kind of care (but not really, and honestly, is there something in the water here that just causes adults to stop giving a shit about their kids?) and people who ignored them in the halls at school, and they'll never be back. On the other hand, though, they're driving to the other side of the fucking country to start looking for their best friend who decided to ship himself off to who knows where for whatever fucking reason.
So, yeah. It’s safe to say that watching Derry disappear in the rear view mirror is bittersweet at best.
Eddie lets out a slow breath as he looks away from the mirror, swallowing roughly as he turns his attention to the map in his hands. Mike is to his left, hands on the steering wheel as he drives, Stan in the backseat, while Bill, Beverly and Ben are in Bill’s car behind them. They wanted to find a way to take one car in order to save gas money, but it became clear that they’d have to invest in some kind of van if they wanted that to happen, and purchasing an entirely new vehicle was completely out of the question. Because of that, they came to this arrangement – three in one car, three in the other. Naturally, Mike, Stan and Eddie wanted to be in the same vehicle; after putting so much time and thought into figuring out where to look, they feel responsible for making sure they don’t get lost along the way. It was unintentional, but, while Bill may the ‘leader’ of the group, the three of them feel as though they’re in charge of this specific situation.
“Take the next right,” Eddie murmurs, flattening out the map of Maine in his lap, running his finger over the highlighted path that’ll lead them to New Hampshire, then New York, and onward. In the glove compartment is a stack of all the states they’ll be driving through, each one also highlighted to show where exactly they’re going, all of them containing certain rest stops and cheap motels that are circled. The goal is to make it to western Washington within four days, only stopping to load up on food and sleep when completely necessary, and then make their way through the three states. They’ll have to go slow enough to be able to thoroughly search for Richie, but they don’t want to be too slow, which is something that is stressing Eddie out beyond belief, because what is too slow?
Too slow is more time for something bad to happen. Too slow is another day, week, month, maybe even a year without Richie in his life. Too slow is the difference between Richie missing them and Richie realizing life is fine without them. Too slow isn’t an option.
Mike takes the next right, as instructed, and asks, “How far away is New Hampshire, again?”
“About two-hundred and fifty miles,” Eddie tells him instantly, the calculations that he’d made days ago fresh in his mind from looking over them repeatedly. “If there’s no traffic, we’ll be there in a few hours, then we’ll be in New York by dinner time. We can stop to eat there, see how everyone’s feeling after eight hours in a car, and figure out if we should find a place to stay or if we can keep going.”
“I already vote to keep going,” Stan says from the backseat, leaning forward so his head is sticking out between the seats. He rests his arm on the back of Eddie’s headrest and presses his forehead to his palm, shaking his head slightly. “Now that we’re finally on the road, I can’t imagine stopping for even a minute.”
Chuckling lightly, Mike muses, “You say that now, but let’s see what you have to say in eight hours.”
“I’ll say the same thing,” Stan states matter-of-factly, his lips twitching into the smallest of smiles. That’s one thing that’s gotten better in the weeks that they’ve been preparing for this – after coming to the realization that Richie would feel guilty if he found out they were stoic on a road trip across the country, the rest of the losers decided to let themselves feel some semblance of normalcy. They went back to telling jokes, laughing with one another, and even taking the time to appreciate how many stories they’ll have to tell Richie once they track him down. It’s been difficult, as they can all feel that gap within themselves that only Richie can fill, but they’re managing. “Besides,” Stan goes on, “there’s three of us in here. We can take turns being in charge of navigation,” he points to Eddie, “and driving,” he turns his hand to direct his pointing in Mike’s direction, “and whoever isn’t in charge of that can take a nap back here,” he gestures over his shoulder to the backseat. “So when one of you is tired, let me know. We can pull over and switch roles, and they,” he jabs a thumb behind him, indicating Bill, Ben, and Beverly in the other car, “can do the same. Easy peasy.”
Sharing a quick look of genuine surprise with Mike, Eddie finds himself nodding. “That’s a really good idea, actually. Why didn’t you say something about this before now?”
Stan shrugs. “Didn’t think of it until now. Pretty good, right?”
“Really good, yeah,” Mike chuckles.
“Turn left at the next stoplight,” Eddie says.
Mike turns left just as Stan points out the license plate of the car in front of them with a laugh. “Look,” he insists, laughter escalating with each passing second until there’s tears in the corners of his eyes. “Look! It looks like it says bitch!” Eddie follows his gaze and snorts when he sees B17CH, just as Mike lets out a loud, bellowing laugh. The three of them dissolve into a mess of giggles and happy tears, and while Eddie can still feel the absence of Richie in the car with them – can feel the absence of the other three as well, the ones trailing behind them, but can especially feel the empty space where Richie should be sitting – he can also feel the reassurance within his chest, the certainty that, together, they will find Richie, and they will all be together again.
It’s just a matter of how long it’ll take.
Richie ends up staying in a hotel on the edge of a small town called Everton, somewhere by the border between Idaho and Montana. He spends the first couple days here in his hotel room, only leaving to buy greasy fast food from the place across the street and packs of cigarettes from the gas station a few buildings down the block. He doesn’t even remember why he bought the first pack – his dad smoked constantly when he was growing up, one of the few things that Richie absolutely hated about Wentworth (the others things being how often his worked and his apparent inability to understand when Richie was joking and when he wasn’t, which got him grounded far too many times to count). Whenever Richie even smelled cigarette smoke, it make him gag and caused irritation to itch at the back of his neck, but somehow, somewhere, he decided to buy some for himself.
He left his parents back in Derry, he’s just now realizing. Sure, they’re not the best folks, not understanding their sons behavior, becoming more and more emotionally detached over the years as they struggled to keep up with Richie’s sporadic growth spurts and the endless stream of words falling from his lips at an unfathomable speed, but they cared. When he was having a bad day, they let him stay home and made his favorite food for dinner, offering comfort in the only way they could understand how to. When he told jokes they didn’t like hearing, they’d snap his name and then immediately falter when he winced away from their loud voice, apologizing and politely asking that he not say things like that again. They didn’t really get the fact that Richie doesn’t have much of a filter, barely has any control over what he says or does, and there were nights where he just couldn’t handle the way the looked at him, as if trying to solve a riddle that’s written in a different language – these were the nights he slept in his car, Eddie usually accompanying him, taking any chance he had to escape his mother for even a few meek hours – but they tried to. God, Went and Maggie tried, and Richie loves them for it. Maybe not the same love a child should feel for their parents, but a love that one feels towards someone who did everything they could to help you. A distant kind of love built off a feeling of gratitude, a love that will last a lifetime, a love that he’ll always remember when he thinks of them.
Now, he’ll probably never see them again.
While the smell of cigarettes used to be suffocating, he now finds them comforting. They remind of his father; the way the burn his throat and ache in his lungs, bringing tears to his eyes with every puff, is worth it.. And if he buys a bouquet of roses on the way back to his hotel room because they remind him of the garden his mother adores so much, the one that he could always see so perfectly from his bedroom window, well… no one needs to know but him.
He leaves Everton after staying there for a week, bringing it up to a month – four long, lonely weeks – since he left Derry, and he heads west as soon as he’s back on the road. The worker behind the desk of the hotel smiles at him when he checks out. He tries to, but he can’t find it in himself to smile back.
Stan’s idea of rotating positions does wonders for their progress, getting them halfway across the country in two days – and that’s with them stopping every couple of hours to use the restroom, get food, and take a break from the stuffiness inside the vehicles, greedily inhaling the fresh air around them – but it also makes things a little… tense. As much as the losers love each other, spending so much time in such a small proximity without any alone time in between is bound to make things more difficult. It’s more evident in Eddie and Bill than it is for everyone else, seeing as they’re the two who struggle to contain their frustration the most out of the group. It’s a blessing that they aren’t in the same car, as they would quickly devolve into a screaming match within minutes, but that doesn’t make it any easier on the others as they struggle to deal with their individual snarky remarks, a permanent scowl on their faces as they grumble softly under their breath.
It’s Mike that suggests they rent a few rooms for the night. “We’re ahead of schedule,” he calmly explains when Eddie snaps at him about how stupid of an idea that is. “And we clearly need a break from each other if we want to get through the rest of this without someone getting murdered. You can get your own room, take a breather, and have a fresh attitude when we leave in the morning.” Sparing Eddie a quick glance, he adds, “I don’t to waste time anymore than you do, Eddie, but this is necessary. You trust me, right?”
Eddie parts his lips, looking ready to complain, but falters as Mike’s words register in his mind. Slowly, brows pinched together in confusion, he replies, “Of course I trust you.”
“Then trust me when I say we need to do this,” Mike says, already turning on the blinker and getting ready to take the next exit. “We’ll lose our minds if we don’t.”
Even Eddie can’t argue that, no matter how much he wants to, so he only slumps in his seat and nods, his lips turned down into a frown as Mike leads them to the nearest motel he can find. He makes sure to keep his mouth shut the entire time they find a place, check in, and start making their way up to their rooms, but his weakly held together composure quickly collapses when him and Bill accidentally knock shoulders as they try to pass each other to get into their individual rooms. Instantly, Eddie finds his eyes narrowing into a glare while Bill spits, ‘Jesus, Eddie, fucking move!”
“Are you serious?” Eddie scoffs, arms crossed over his chest as he leans closer to get into Bill’s face. “You ran into me! You fucking move!”
“Guys,” Stan tries to intervene, taking a step forward to try and push them away from each other, but neither of them hear him. “Guys, don’t—”
“I didn’t run into you,” Bill grits out, lips drawn back into some kind of animalistic snarl. “It’s not my fault you’re fucking blind and got in my way.”
It’s stupid, Eddie knows, to have a full blown fight over something so insignificant, but he has two days of tension and stress weighing down his shoulders, and any semblance of self control was left back in the middle of Minnesota. So, with a sharp breath, he surges forward and shoves at Bill’s chest, not hard enough to cause any harm, but just enough to make him stumble back into the wall. “Don’t blame me for something that’s not my fault,” he hisses, his eyes absolutely burning with rage.
“What, us running into each other?” Bill asks, tone condescending and quivering with anger. “Or Richie leaving?”
Eddie blanches. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Desperately, Beverly tugs on Bill’s arm, only to be shaken off as Bill pushes away from the wall, stepping in Eddie’s space. “You know the way he thinks,” Bill practically growls. “That’s what they said, right? You know him better than anyone ever has, and even you couldn’t figure out what he was planning to do. What do you call that, huh? Because I call it bullshit.”
“Bill,” Mike warns, jaw clenching as he contemplates if/when to interfere with their interaction.
Either not hearing Mike, or just not caring at all, Bill goes on. “If you know him so well, why didn’t you find a way to stop him? Why’d you let him go, Eddie? If anyone could have done it, it’s you, and you did nothing. You didn’t even care enough to realize something was wrong!”
“No,” Eddie tries to say, but his voice gets caught in his throat, anger dissipating into an overwhelming sense of dread. He shakes his head back and forth, heart thundering in his chest. “No, I- I—”
“I just- I don’t get it,” Bill keeps talking, completely ignoring everyone’s interjections. “I mean, it was obvious that you guys have a connection from day fucking one. I could see it, every fucking time that you looked at each other. I could tell, and I thought- I mean, it just made sense, you know? And I figured that if anyone was good for him, it was you, but you let this happen. You let him go.”
Sounding both parts shocked and thoroughly pissed off, Ben says, “Bill, stop it.”
But Bill doesn’t stop, not yet. Instead, he takes another step closer to Eddie, and while Bill is only six inches or so taller than him, Eddie feels absolutely tiny right now, quivering under his heated gaze. “If you’re so in love with him,” Bill whispers, his features suddenly calm but just as terrifying, “then why the fuck did you let him leave?”
And that’s when Eddie breaks.
It starts gradually, his brows twitching up and his lower lip trembling, and steadily grows as tears burn the corner of his eyes, slowly rolling down his cheeks. Now, Bill and him have had plenty of fights in the past – they love each other to death, sure, but they often butt heads due to how short-tempered they tend to be. This is no exception, of course, but this is easily the harshest that Bill has been during one of their arguments. And the worst part is that, looking into his eyes, Eddie can tell it’s not just a product of anger. At least some part of Bill blames Eddie for Richie running away.
That realization feels like a stab directly to the chest, and Eddie, unable to face Bill any longer, pushes past him to get into his motel room, slamming and locking the door behind him just in time for an ugly sob to rip its way from his throat. He leans heavily against the wall, unable to stop the flow of tears streaming down his face, and slides down into a sitting position in order to bury his face in his knees.
Out in the hall, Mike whirls around to face Bill upon realizing that the door is locked. His features are cool and collected, but his eyes are alight with rage as he calmly states, “Bill, go lay down. Now.”
Clearly affronted by this, Bill scoffs, gesturing to the closed door as he exclaims, “You’re on his side?! Come on, Mikey, you know I’m right!”
“You don’t get to call me Mikey right now,” Mike grits out, barely able to contain his own seething anger. “Either go cool off or expect a much bigger fight than the one you just had. And trust me, Bill, you won’t fucking win.”
“Oh, that’s such bullshit!” Bill whines, turning to face Ben and Beverly with his eyebrows raised. “You guys are with me, right?”
Ben clenches his jaw, eyes flashing. “You went too far.”
“No, I didn’t!” Bill protests, groaning.
Taking a step forward, Beverly places a hand on Bill’s shoulder, her features gentle and concerned rather than angry. Bill looks hopeful for a moment, thinking that she’s siding with him, but falters when she shakes her head. “Listen,” she tells him, holding a finger up to her lips before using that same finger to point to the door Eddie disappeared behind. Bill rolls his eyes, looking ready to argue even more, but Beverly squeezes his shoulder and sternly states, “I’m serious. Be quiet and listen.” With an annoyed sigh, he complies, crossing his arms over his chest and letting the hallway fall into a tense silence. For a moment, there’s nothing, but then his ears pick up on the small sound – it’s faint, muffled, but not far away.
It’s Eddie on the other side of the door, cradling his own legs and pressing his forehead to the material of his jeans, his sobs heavy and painful, aching deeply in his chest. Through his cries, he barely manages to choke out incoherent words, repeatedly mumbling, “I’m sorry,” and, “I didn’t know.” The amount of remorse in his voice is heartbreaking, and in the midst of a particularly rough sob, there’s a certain string of noises that sounds eerily like Richie’s name.
“Think about what you said to him,” Beverly says softly, dropping her hand from Bill’s shoulder. Stiffly, Bill faces her, his jaw slack as realization crosses his features, a cloud of guilt hanging over his head and his heart. Tenderly, Beverly tells him, “This is hard on all of us, Bill, and I know you get frustrated easily, but… you were right about one thing. He’s in love with Richie.” Wordlessly, Bill shakes his head, looking shell shocked, his own words running through his head. “This is harder for him than we can even begin to imagine,” she goes on, “and you just told him that it’s his fault.”
“I d-d-didn’t—” Bill stutters, swallowing roughly. “I didn’t m-mean it, I wuh-wasn’t thinking—”
“We know, Bill,” Beverly interrupts. “But you still said it.”
Letting out a sigh, Mike steps forward, all of his anger from before fading into pure exhaustion, and wraps an arm around Bill’s shoulder. “You can fix this tomorrow,” he says, leading the way down the hall, towards the rest of the rooms they rented for the night. “Let’s just get some sleep first.”
It takes five weeks to find a place to settle down in.
To Richie, it feels like it’s been years.
According to the map he buys at the gas station he stops at, Olympia is the capitol of Washington State. It’s odd, considering the fact that it’s not particularly grand, nor is it particularly cozy, but as he makes his way down the streets of the small city, he finds that it doesn’t look half bad. A bit farther north than he was hoping – which is probably good, considering the fact that the losers will definitely assume he’s in California somewhere – but the buildings are all warm and welcoming, and at least half the businesses he passes have a NOW HIRING! sign in their window, which is exactly what he needs now that his saved up cash is nearly gone. It’s surrounded by a wide variety of smaller towns and cities that look interesting enough to visit, and if he feels like driving for two hours to take an hour long ferry ride across the Puget Sound, then he can go exploring Seattle sometime, too.
It’s better than Derry, that’s for sure, but it’s still dull without his friends. He can’t be too picky, though, so after wandering around for a few hours and scoping the area out, he finds a warm looking motel on the outskirts of the city (it doesn’t feel big enough to be called a city, but it certainly isn’t a town, either) and books a room. There’s an older lady behind the desk, her features soft and kind, who asks how long he’ll be staying. Richie just shrugs and says, “Until I have enough money to rent my own place, I guess.”
“Oh.” She looks mildly shocked by his response, but her smile only becomes more gentle, comforting. “Well, stay as long as you need. Hopefully your job pays well enough that it won’t take long.”
It’s completely unlike himself, to be so grouchy and rude, but he can’t help it when he shoulders one of his duffle bags and bitterly murmurs, “Need a job that pays at all before I can worry about one that pays well.” The woman blanches, not expecting the harsh twist in his tone. Richie feels guilt curl angrily in his gut, causing him to let out a long sigh as he tiredly rubs at his eyes. “Sorry,” he tells her, voice sounding just as tired as he feels. “I’ve been driving for, like, a month, and I’m not in the best place right now. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Thanks for the room.” He tries for a smile but inevitably falls short, leaving him to hunch his shoulders and turn around with the intention of making his way upstairs.
“Wait!” The lady calls out, and when Richie looks back, she looks equal parts sympathetic and conflicted. Taking a moment to consider her next words, she gnaws on her lower lip and glances over her shoulder before looking back to him and asking, “You need a job?”
“I mean,” Richie starts, confused. “It’d definitely help, yeah. Why?”
Holding up a hand, she states, “Wait here,” and then promptly spins around to disappear through the door behind her. Richie blinks, unsure of what to make of this; he briefly considers going up to his room despite her instructions, his limbs heavy with exhaustion (both physical and mental), but he opts to stay put. Faintly, he can hear her voice as she speaks to someone else, picking up snippets of words, like, “—poor boy—“ and “—needs help—“. Curiosity peaked, he makes his way closer to the front desk and leans against it, glancing around the lobby in order to pass the time until, finally, the lady comes back, another woman trailing behind her. They look to be around the same age, not particularly old but just aged enough to start developing wrinkles here and there. Looking at Richie, the lady gestures to the other woman and says, “This is my wife, Anne. We own the motel.”
Richie parts his lips, eyes widening slightly. “Wife?”
“Not legally, of course,” Anne tells him, rolling her eyes in frustration – not at him, he realizes, but at the fact that she isn’t bound by law to her partner. “Hopefully they get on top of gay marriage before we die, but as far as we’re concerned, we’re married.” She holds up her left hand to show off a bright, sparkling ring on her finger, then drops it onto the desktop, cocking an eyebrows as she scans Richie slowly. “So, you’re looking for a job?”
“I’m looking for a room, which I already got,” Richie corrects, shaking his head to himself, too tired to fully process what’s going on. “I mean, I need a job, too, but that’s not what I came here for.”
Anne smiles at that, apparently finding amusement in the clear confusion in his eyes. “Well, Betty said you need a job to save up for a place to stay. Is that true?” Slowly, Richie nods, unable to form a coherent response. Anne’s smile widens. “Well, you’re in luck. If you want, you can work here and rent out a room on the top floor, where employees live. We’ll take rent out of your paycheck so you don’t have to worry paying us, and if you ever find a better job or want to move out, just give up a week’s notice and we’ll offer good wishes on your way out.”
Glancing between the woman doubtfully, Richie asks, “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” the lady, Betty, promises. “We’re always looking for employees. Not a lot of people want to work for a couple of queers, you know? Finding workers… it’s not easy for us.”
“You don’t have to decide yet,” Anne intervenes, making a show of checking her watch. “It’s late and you look dead tired, so making choices right now isn’t a good idea, but think about it, okay? And when you’ve made your decision, come to the front desk. If one of us isn’t out here, just ask for us and we’ll come out to talk.”
Richie takes a moment to mull over her words, gnawing on his lower lip thoughtfully, before giving a slight nod. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll think about it.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Eddie, I’m sorry, can we please just—”
“Just what? I don’t to just anything with you! I want to get in the car and keep going!”
“We need to talk about this—”
“No, we really don’t—”
“Yes, we do! Eddie, please—”
“Fuck off, Denbrough—”
“Stop it!” Mike shouts, stepping in between Eddie and Bill with a firm look on his face. Eddie’s mouth snaps shut, but he keeps his glare steadily trained on Bill, who’s looking overwhelmed with guilt and the fear that he may not be able to fix the damage he caused. Glancing between the two of them, Mike instructs, “Eddie, give Bill a chance to talk. You don’t have to like what he says, you don’t even have to forgive. Just let him speak without interrupting him, and then you can do the same. Okay?”
Eddie shifts his glare to Mike, jaw clenching, but he doesn’t do anything other than nod. Letting out a slow breath, Mike takes a step back and looks to Bill, who audibly gulps as all the attention lands on him. “Okay,” he murmurs to himself, shaking out his hands and wiping his sweaty palms against the rough material of his jeans. “Okay, uh- I’d like to start by saying sorry. I know we fight a lot and I know we both got mad for no reason yesterday, but I crossed a line and said stuff I didn’t mean. Stuff that I- that I shouldn’t have said. I didn’t mean it, and I wish I could take it back, but I can’t.” Clearing his throat, Bill meets Eddie’s gaze and states, “I don’t deserve to be forgiven for that, I know, but I just… I really, really hope this doesn’t ruin us, Eddie. I can’t imagine life without you in it. You’re… you’re my best friend, okay? And I- I know you care about Richie- I mean, we all do, but I know you love him in a different way than you love us, and I shouldn’t have- I shouldn’t have used that against you. And I definitely shouldn’t have tried to blame you for something that isn’t even remotely your fault.”
A heavy silence falls over them, and Eddie takes a moment to realize how ridiculous they must look, huddled together in the parking lot of the run down motel they stayed in last night, skin slick with sweat from the hot summer’s sun. To an outsider, they’d look like a regular group of crazy, hormonal teens on a road trip, but that’s not what they are. No, they’re the losers, and they’re missing the seventh member of their group, and they’re hurting, and nothing is okay.
Hoarsely, Bill says, “That’s all I wanted to say. Just… I’m sorry. I’m so, so fucking sorry.”
Mike looks at Eddie, careful to keep his features neutral. “It’s your turn, Eddie. Say what you want to say.”
Oh, Eddie has plenty to say, none of it very kind, but then he sees the way Bill tenses, already expecting the worst, and he can’t bring himself to utter the list of foul words in his mind. Instead, he releases a slow sigh, bringing up a hand to dig his fingers into his temple, hoping it’ll help rid him of the headache throbbing within his skull. “You didn’t ruin us,” he settles on after a few long moments of thought. Bill blinks, shocked, and Eddie goes on. “I mean, what you said… fuck, that hurt, Billy. Like, it hurt more than reading Richie’s fucking letter, because I…” He trails off, trying to figure out how to word the mess of emotion in his mind. Shaking his head, he decides on saying, “Last night, you said I didn’t notice anything was wrong, but that’s not true. I did notice, Bill. I could see that something was wrong for months, and I- I tried so fucking hard to get Richie to talk to me about it, I swear I did, but he wouldn’t budge. He’s stubborn, sometimes more stubborn than I am, and I thought he just wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. So, I gave him some space, waiting for him to tell me what was going on.” Embarrassingly, there are tears forming in Eddie’s eyes. He lets out a wet, humorless laugh. “And I thought he was going to, I really did, because he started getting clingy. He always gets clingy when he’s getting ready to admit to something. I was so- so fucking sure that he was about to open up to me, but then…” The words he left hang ominously in the air. Gently, Beverly places a comforting hand on his arm, but he doesn’t react to it. He doesn’t to anything but suck in deep, harsh breaths. “The point is,” he concludes, “I knew something was wrong. I could have stopped this if I was smart enough to figure out what he was planning to do. So, yeah, what you said hurt like a bitch, but not because I’m in love with the idiot. They hurt because they were true.”
“No, they weren’t,” Bill insists, taking a small step forward and shaking his head. “I wasn’t right when I said that, Eddie. You didn’t cause this, it isn’t your fault—”
“Can we go now?” Eddie asks loudly, avoiding everyone else’s worried eyes as he averts his own to the ground. He fidgets uncomfortably, his weakly pieced together exterior beginning to crumble, and grits out, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. We’re wasting time.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, instead spinning around and marching to Mike’s care, hesitating only a moment before deciding to claim the backseat. He got barely any sleep last night, hours spent in a haze of guilt and anger and dread; the least he can do is take a nap for a few hours before being trusted with the map or behind the wheel. Silently, the rest of the losers share a look, sigh, and wordlessly shuffle into their respective vehicles.
On his first full day in Olympia, Richie goes on a job hunt. It’s not that he doesn’t want to take up the offer given to him by Betty and Anne – quite the opposite, really – but he wants to see his choices before signing his life away to two old lesbians who need a janitor, or whatever the fuck they want him to do. He spends the whole time going in and out of businesses, asking about what positions are open and what he can do to pursue getting a job, only to be shut down time and time again when he’s unable to give an official address of residence or offer up his birth certificate or social security card.
He didn’t think to snatch those before leaving Derry, which means he’s thoroughly fucked over and left with no other options.
When he pushes open the front door of the motel, his shoulders are hunched and his body feels heavy, eyelids drooping, hair a mess. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window and suppresses the urge to grimace at what he sees, and he suddenly realizes that maybe employers turned him away because he looks like some kind of junkie looking for money to chase his next high rather than someone willing to work his ass off to distract himself from the constant hollow feeling in his chest. Letting out a sigh, he makes his way to the front desk, only faltering slightly when he sees that it isn’t Betty or Anne sitting behind it, but pushes on despite the discomfort itching the back of his throat. He clears his throat to get the stranger’s attention, meekly murmuring, “Uh, ‘scuse me?”
The person, a man who looks to be older than him but not quite as old as Anne and Betty, looks away from the paperwork on the desk to eye Richie curiously. “May I help you?”
“Yeah, uh—” Richie cuts off, shifting awkwardly under the man’s clearly uninterested and cold gaze. “Is, um- is Betty here? Or Anne?” The man quirks an eyebrow and offers no response, leading Richie to stutter, “I- I, uh- they said to- to ask for them, so—”
“Bets!” the man suddenly shouts over his shoulder, making Richie jump with the unexpected volume. He scrutinizes Richie slowly, uncertainly, until Betty emerged from the door behind the desk and he tells her, “Some boy’s here to see you.”
Confused, Betty looks over to Richie and immediately lights up, her features both excited and knowing. Unsure of what else to do, Richie lifts a hand to wave, much to the apparent amusement of the strange man, who lets out a low snort in response. Giving the man an unamused glance, Betty gestures behind her and says, “Follow me. We can talk in private.”
“Gladly,” Richie mumbles, gratefully being lead away from the uncomfortable eyes of the stranger behind the desk. Betty guides him through the doorway she came from and into what looks to be some kind of breakroom, tables pushed against the walls and a calendar pinned to a corkboard. Richie slows, expecting them to take a seat at one of the various tables, but Betty keeps going, leading him through a second doorway, down a short hallway, and into an average sized kitchen.
“Have a seat,” Betty instructs, pointing to a round table placed in the center of the room. Silently, Richie follows her orders, sliding into one of the empty chairs as he looks around him, taking in his surroundings slowly. The kitchen isn’t much, not particularly grand or spectacular, but it’s cozy and comfortable in a way that puts his mind at ease, if only a little bit. He thinks it’s similar to the comfort he feels in his own car, only in here there’s no remnants of his friends, of his life before now, so there’s no twinge of guilt or heaviness in these walls. It’s nice, in a way. “Do you like tea or coffee?”
Richie looks over to Betty, who apparently pulled down two mugs while he was glancing around. “What?”
Looking amused, Betty holds up the mugs and repeats, “Tea or coffee?”
“Um.” Richie shrugs. “Either’s fine. Whatever you’re making for yourself, I guess.”
“Coffee it is,” she states, spinning around to place the mugs on the countertop. As she grab the pot from the coffee maker, she tells him, “But if Anne asks, we had tea. She gets worried when I have too much caffeine.” She chuckles as she says this, but Richie isn’t sure what to say, so he doesn’t respond, instead clasping his hands in his lap and waiting patiently, knee bouncing from nerves as he does so. Betty looks over her shoulder at his silence, brows pinched together. “What, not much of a talker? Shame, you seemed like a chatterbox yesterday.”
Letting out a slow breath, Richie murmurs, “I can be, just… haven’t felt really talkative lately.” He doesn’t tell her that he has no one to talk to anymore; that, before yesterday, he hadn’t uttered a single word in over a week. Speaking feels so meaningless now that he’s not talking to the people he loves, but even when his throat is raw and his voice is rough, he repeats to himself that he’s doing the right thing, that he made the right choice, that he can’t go back.
Betty sits across from Richie and slides one of the mugs his way, which he accepts with a grateful murmur of thanks. Curiously, she leans back in her seat, takes a long sip of her coffee, and then asks, “Why’s that?”
“No reason,” Richie blatantly lies, chasing the heavy feeling on his tongue away with the bitter taste of his own coffee. He waits until the scorching liquid has burned its way down his throat before saying, “I wanted to talk about that job offer. I, uh- I want to do it. If you still want me, I mean.”
“I figured that much,” Betty muses, tapping the pads of her fingers against her mug absentmindedly. When Richie doesn’t speak up, she sighs, setting her coffee down and leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table. “Listen,” she starts softly, tenderly. Richie stiffens, recognizing the pity in her voice. “You’ve obviously been through a lot recently, and as much as I’d love to know the story for how you ended up here, these are the facts: you need a place to stay, you need a job, and we’re able to offer you both. However, you have to put in the effort to earn it. That means proper hygiene,” she looks pointedly to the greasy mess of frizzed curls atop his head, “and being able to push past whatever funk you’re in to be able to hold a conversation with both customers and co-workers. Can you promise me that much?”
Richie raises a hand to tug on one of his curls shamefully, suddenly wishing he’d taken a shower last night like he wanted to instead of passing out on the bed. Sucking in a harsh breath, he lets his arm fall to the table and nods. “Yeah, I can do that. Promise.”
The next two days are quiet and tense for Eddie, who does all of the driving and navigating that he can but can’t bring himself to confront his inner turmoil. There are bigger problems than he own, he thinks – like the fact that they crossed the Washington border an hour ago and will be in Western Washington by nightfall, where they’ll start searching for Richie in the morning. That’s something to keep his focus on, something to put his energy into, but with how clogged his head has been since his fight with Bill, he doesn’t have much energy at all.
Which is why, when they stop at a gas station to fill their tanks and restock on snacks, he pulls Stan to the side and asks, “Do you mind switching cars with Bill until we get to the hotel?” Stan looks surprised by the request and looks over his shoulder warily, leading Eddie to quickly explain, “I just want to talk to him about what happened but I don’t want to slow us down by doing it here. I promise it won’t get ugly. I’m too tired for another argument, anyway.”
With a sigh, Stan nods and murmurs, “Yeah, okay. I’ll go tell him we’re switching.”
“You’re the best, Stanny,” Eddie says as Stan walks away, letting out a soft, tired chuckle when Stan flips him off without looking back.
As it turns out, Eddie isn’t as prepared to talk this out as he thought he was, for the car side is silent and awkward when they get back on the road. He keeps his eyes trained to the map, only mumbling instructions to Mike when necessary, and occasionally glances in the rearview mirror to see Bill shuffling nervously in the back seat. It’s like this for nearly an hour, until Mike lets out a huff and states, “Okay, that’s it. You wanted to talk to him, Eddie. So, start talking, before I kick both of you out of this damn car.”
Looking like a deer caught in the headlights, Bill stutters out, “N-No, it’s fine t-take your time—”
“No, he’s right,” Eddie breathes, letting his eyes flutter shut and taking a slow, deep breath to slow his heartrate. He sets the map down in his lap and twists around until he can meet Bill’s gaze head-on. “I’m tired of being upset,” he starts, unable to decide between clenching his jaw or relaxing it. “But I can’t just let this go yet, okay? I need… I need to talk about it. I need some things explained, from both you and me. Is that okay?”
Bill was already nodding way before Eddie finished talking, looking desperate to patch up the holes in their friendship that he’s responsible for. “Yeah, of course!”
Even with the nauseating roll of his stomach, Eddie can’t help but to smile slightly at the excitement in Bill’s voice. He can get angry, sure, and he can say things that hurt to hear, but he’s a kind soul who always means the best. That’s why Eddie loves him, and that’s why Eddie wants to be over this; he wants to go back to being able to look at Bill without tasting something bitter and painful at the back of his throat. “Okay,” he says, turning back around to glance between the map and the road ahead of them. He’s still the navigator, and the taste isn’t gone quite yet. “So, for starters, I want to know what you meant and what you didn’t. And you can’t tell me nothing you said was true, because I saw it in your eyes, Billy. You believed some of it.”
At first, Bill makes a noise of protest, but it quickly dwindles into a low sigh as he realizes that Eddie won’t let him get away with denying. “Some of it, yeah,” he admits quietly, sounding ashamed of himself. “I… I believe that, if anyone could have stopped him, it’s you, but that doesn’t mean it was your responsibility to. Richie, he’s… he’s a stubborn little shit, just like you are, and he had his mind set on this. You could have stopped if you knew, sure, but it’s not your fault that you didn’t. None of us could have guessed what he was planning to do. If it’s your fault that he left, then it’s also mine, and Mike’s, and all of ours, because no one realized what was going on. But it’s not our fault, and it isn’t yours, either.” The way that Bill insists this, his voice soft and sincere, makes Eddie’s eyes water just slightly.
“Did you—” Eddie cuts off, clearing his throat when he feels his words starting to get caught. “Did you mean anything else you said? And be honest, Bill.”
“I didn’t,” Bill promises, shaking his head firmly. “The rest of the shit I said was a lie. I was mad and tired and I didn’t mean any of it.”
“I know,” Eddie murmurs, smiling slightly once again. “It’s okay.”
Sounding offended, Bill firmly states, “No, Eddie, it’s not okay. I know I didn’t mean what I said, but that doesn’t make it okay. You shouldn’t have been told that at all.”
From the driver’s seat, Mike lets out something akin to an appreciative hum, nodding along to Bill’s words. “He’s right,” he agrees, glancing towards Eddie before training his eyes back on the road. “If you think it’s your fault, that means it’s our fault, too. Can’t blame yourself unless you’re willing to blame us all. And even if it was somehow your fault, that doesn’t make it okay for you to be treated like that.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Eddie groans, though his heart picks up speed at their sentiments, and he’s consumed by a full-body warmth, radiating love for his friends. “This wasn’t supposed to be you two getting all gushy with me! I was supposed to be in control of the gushiness, you pricks!”
Mike lets out a surprised laugh at Eddie’s outburst, which causes Eddie to quickly dissolve into a fit of giggles. Looking hopeful, Bill lets out a few low chuckles before timidly asking, “So… are we okay?”
Laughter subsiding, Eddie throws Bill a grin over his shoulder and says, “Yeah, Billy. We’re okay.”